


a gentleman's guide to preparation

by grumpsy



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Eggsy and Harry mutually pine, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Harry, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Overuse of italics, Unrequited Love, Weddings, Well - Freeform, Yikes, i haven't watched the sequel when writing this so, lots of swearing kids beware, no but this is, probably not cannon compliant, theres no happy ending lads i'm sorry, wow i love heartbreak and suffering :-)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 12:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12168639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpsy/pseuds/grumpsy
Summary: Eggsy gets married. Harry gets jealous.





	a gentleman's guide to preparation

**Author's Note:**

> "and we danced,   
> slowly,  
> behind closed doors,   
> and the rumours started,   
> i don't know why.   
> all i know  
> is you left the wedding early   
> and i don't   
> think i'm   
> in love with   
> the bride."
> 
> (j.b)

Harry Hart had once considered himself prepared for anything.

 

He was a Kingsman; it was supposed to be second nature to agents, just as suits came to be a second skin. Although not entirely enthralled by the possibility, he was prepared for Valentine’s bullet, weighing up the likelihood of returning unscathed compared to the much more likely outcome; as always, he was willing to adjust and adapt to his new situation, to retrain agility with a disability. Let it be known, to the few who were privy to such classified information: Harry Hart was willing to lay down his life for the greater good.

 

He was a man - perhaps not good, perhaps not bad - who had learnt the art of sacrifice late, albeit a long time ago now, courtesy of both his own error and his former protégé, who had been more than prepared to act in favour of others, as though his life was insignificant in comparison. Harry learnt more from that young man about the value of such a practice than from his own mentor all those years ago; his advisor, God rest his soul, was a kind, yet selfish man, so blinded by his own superiority that he didn’t see the bullet that drew his last breath.

 

Harry was lucky, he knew that; the doctor’s had seared that fact into his brain with the precision of, well, a doctor, as he was thrown around wards like he was a pass-the-parcel on the daily for months on end like it was almost a routine. Mixed in with medical dribble that was as indecipherable as Kingsman’s own code, they all said the same thing; “You should consider yourself lucky.” Between checkups, between the pinpricks and needles that were far too close to an eye that wouldn't open, he found himself questioning if ‘luck’ was really the name for it.

 

Preparation was a term that had always defined Harry. Merlin, after several years of pre-mission meetings, no longer asked if he was ready, and silence crackled through the earpiece. Harry was ready, _always_.

 

Although mocked by his colleague, his personal arsenal was stocked with everything and anything a gentleman could ever need, with extras in case of emergency; he was a one-man army. Bespoke bulletproof suits lined the bedroom he rarely used anymore like wallpaper, each with their individual oxford and tie sets beneath. It was disgusting how much time and care he put into his appearance, but, now, it had become a ritual of sorts - if he looked good, he felt calm, he performed well. Old habit, he supposed.

 

He always put on his suit, his armour, in the very same way his mentor had: trousers first and foremost, shirt and cufflinks, oxfords, jacket, glasses. Glasses that had been rendered more or less useless now. They didn’t fit the same, not the way they used to, too tight around his head, pressing too hard against his wound so that the cells, once thought to have been eliminated, ached just below the surface, like a constant reminder that he’s not the same man anymore, doesn’t deserve to be.

 

Karma had never been a thing Harry had entertained until the scar burned at night, forcing him to stare blankly at the dark. He had deserved this, after all he’d done over a lifetime had amplified in that damn church, this was his punishment. He thought he had died, he would have deserved it and all, and here he was, bespoke suit and glasses and cufflinks with a fucking capital K on them, idly stalking the Kingsman corridors like a ghost.

 

Harry was prepared to deal with his new life as a fucking pirate, with only being able to focus on one wing of the butterfly at a time. The eyepatch was uncomfortable as all hell, but, well, he supposed he deserved that.

 

Yet now, standing before his former protégé’s son, even his fitted suit felt far too tight, felt as though it wasn’t his at all, as though he’d jumped into another man’s clothes, another man’s skin, another man’s grave. He was a fraud.

 

The boy - his boy, his mind selfishly supplied - was still staring at him, with a smile that was all dimples, with eyes glimmering and glinting like crystals on a chandelier - and yet, even that description barely captured the beauty of those eyes. And it was, Harry concluded lamely, the same look from the pub that night, after he’d watched him jeopardise any sense of secrecy Kingsman held dear - a look that made Harry want to bow down to cater to his boy’s every whim, praise and, _God forbid_ , worship every inch of his body as though he was some kind of modern Adonis. The boy looked at him like Harry held all the bloody stars in his sky, rather than Harry’s own reality of it being the other way around, as though he still, after everything, adored him, and Harry wanted to scream until his old, battered lungs gave way to the pressure and the fear and the truth that _he didn’t fucking deserve this._

 

Since Harry had returned, they hadn’t really spoken - not as much as before; he found himself compartmentalising his relationship with Eggsy into two easy chunks: _Before Getting Shot in the Head_ and _After Getting Shot in the Fucking Head_. They tiptoed around each other, neither quite knowing just how to break the icy silence that had frozen between them over the year and a half he had been presumed dead, and, well, Harry didn’t exactly blame the boy for avoiding him.

 

A corridor was not the exact situation they had envisioned for this conversation, he was sure, but Eggsy had stopped him passing the headquarters gym, diving out of the glass doors so fast Harry hadn’t acknowledged quite what was going on, his neck snapping towards the intrusion so fast he was almost positive he could add whiplash to the ever-growing list of _Things Wrong With Harry Hart._

 

The boy was wearing a long-sleeved, grey tee that clung to every muscle he had built up since the last time they spoke, accentuated by the sweat that acted as a vacuum. His chest was heaving and his hair, longer than Harry had previously noticed, was standing on end, shining with the remanence of a good workout.

 

_Fucking hell._

 

This boy was there, looking as sinful as anything, like he’d just been carved from diamond by Michelangelo himself, and Harry should really be forcing himself to look away by now, because the longer he looked, the harder this was going to be for him, because he knew exactly what this conversation was going to be about - he was half blind, not deaf, and news spread fast in a spy ring.

 

Eggsy was fucking engaged.

 

_Harry was not fucking prepared for this._

 

Eggsy had been speaking to him for some time now, Harry had noted, but his brain had followed some sort of self-preservation plan to keep him from going damn-near insane by hushing anything the boy said. And yet Harry was still watching his lips patiently, like a mute trying to decipher.

 

He read the final words, silence still washing over him until everything was submerged and it felt damp beneath his patch.

 

“So?” he was looking at him with those fucking eyes that sparkled like crystals and Harry felt his weary, rotting heart shatter just a little bit more, “Will you?”

 

_Will you be my best man?_

 

Harry wanted to decline gently, by letter, so each hand-chosen word punctured Eggsy’s lungs; Harry wanted to throw things, shatter the porcelain statues on the mantelpiece against the wall; Harry wanted to cry, and scream, and tear, and break, and hurt, he wanted to throw a fit in the hallway. He wanted to rip the very shirt off of his boy’s frame and pin him to the wall with every ounce of energy he possessed, kiss him with no dignity or finesse, just to stop his lips from moving, just to show him how long he’d waited for a chance that would never come, how desperately he wanted him, and how no one, not even if all the princesses in the world formed into one gigantic hybrid, would ever deserve his boy.

 

And so, Harry straightened his suit jacket, corrected his posture and smiled, “Of course.”

 

_Of course._

 

\-     -     -

 

“You never learnt how to ballroom dance?” Harry had asked him incredulously, as though it was as crucial a lesson as maths or English; perhaps it was a boarding school thing, all these posh gits with their posh fucking art of cutlery lessons - Eggsy had particularly struggled to see the point of all this knife and fork fiasco symbolising different points in a three-course, five-fucking-star meal (before Harry came along, the highest rated restaurant he’d been in was rated 3 stars for hygiene - now _that_ was luxury at its finest) and found himself contemplating which piece of cutlery would suit which human orifice. Eggsy had told him as much through a cocky, undisguised snort.

 

“I grew up in a fuckin’ council estate, guv’ - weren’t really much time for dancing an’ shit.” Even after all this time, Eggsy still couldn’t stand these pompous pricks with their high-and-mighty attitudes and agendas, always belittling people like him because their first step as a child wasn’t a pas de bourree.

 

Harry had sucked in his bottom lip at that, gnawing on it as he considered his response, before running his tongue along the abused skin; Eggsy’s eyes had followed the action, as though he physically couldn't force himself to look away from the distinctive teeth marks that flushed purple at the loss of pressure that he had so desperately wanted to supply himself.

 

He had. He had wanted to do that. Not anymore; _he was engaged, remember?_

 

Harry had stood up sharply, almost knocking his whiskey off of his side table in the process, “Well, that won’t do at all. How were you planning to spend your first dance with the Princess of Sweden?” He’d taken off towards the staircase, and Eggsy, for a moment, genuinely thought his mentor would return in a frock he’d saved just for that very occasion.

 

To both his disappointment and relief, Harry had merely left to get his phone from his office, which he then tapped at whilst muttering something about calling ‘Agent Lancelot’ to fix this.

 

_No, there was no way in God’s green hell he was letting Roxy hear about this._

 

Eggsy had downed the rest of his drink, having learnt to ignore the burn by now, for one final boost of confidence. Reluctantly, he had moved from his position on the sofa to stand before Harry, noticing, briefly, the once familiar height difference. Everything had once been familiar; he’d once naïvely believed he knew every line on his mentor’s face - there were so many more now, and they ran deeper and darker than before. He had been so sure, so convinced he knew everything about this man, but of course he didn't - Harry Hart was a Kingsman, after all. Standing before him in that moment, having thought he knew everything there was to know about men like Harry, he learnt that he didn't know anything. But there they were, and they were fine, and, fiddling with his tie absentmindedly, Eggsy was seeing his teacher for the first time.

 

“Why don’t you fix it?” And maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the fact that they hadn’t truly spent this much time with each other in well over a year, but Eggsy found himself using his old seduction techniques to get what he wanted. _What did he want?_

 

For starters, he wanted Harry to teach him again, teach him fucking anything by this point, because he felt like he was off the rails without his guidance, had been since his mentor had ordered him to, ‘ _stay right here, I’ll fix this mess when I get back_ ’ - and whilst being with Harry made his head feel unbelievably fuzzy, like he’d just downed shitty tasting champagne again, it made him feel equally controlled, put back in line, and he had fucking _missed that_.

 

Harry swallowed roughly as Eggsy ran his fingers over his shirt collar, and Eggsy found himself watching his Adam’s apple bob like he’d been hypnotised. This was too much, but not enough, because Eggsy had fucking missed him so much. He wanted to bury his head in the crook of his neck and just…

 

His tutor stood stoically as Eggsy gave in and rested his head on his shoulder. He could blame it on the alcohol in the morning; “Will you?”

 

_Of course._

 

Which brought them up to now, standing in an empty studio well past the point they had intended to stay here until, with moonlight pouring through the window, only accentuating the fact that Eggsy had stood on his teacher’s feet, _again_.

 

Apologies long deserted, Eggsy groaned in annoyance for the seventh time that hour.

 

“Concentrate Eggsy.” And he was fucking _trying_ , but something about having Harry’s arms wrapped around him like a damsel in distress was seriously making this whole ordeal a lot harder than it needed to be, _in more ways than one_ . _Engaged, Eggsy._

 

“Do you need to take a break?”

 

“No,” Eggsy was determined to get this right, to impress his tutor, “Let’s just… go again.”

 

“Are you sure?” It didn’t sound like he was talking about the dancing anymore, but Eggsy’s blisters and aching arms overpowered anything that would prolong his pain.

 

He shook out his arms to his side, just to regain feeling, and spoke words that didn’t feel like his, “It needs to be perfect.”

 

With precision, Eggsy placed his hand on the small of Harry’s back, just like Harry had taught him a few hours prior, and, with his partner’s hand on his shoulder, their free hands met in the thickened air around them. He was trying his hardest to lead, to ignore the way his hands were starting to sweat as he shuffled across the floor.

 

Harry was stiff in his movements - “I haven’t put the music on yet.”

 

Eggsy ignored him, focusing, instead, on the mess of tangled limbs that were tumbling fluidly beneath them, how they were working as one entity to keep one another upright as they propelled themselves across the studio - this was no different to fighting, really. Yet, it was silent, unnervingly so, air tight with… something. And Harry was relaxing, melting into his dance persona of the pliant bride as he twirled under Eggsy’s arms.

 

“It needs to be perfect,” he found himself repeating numbly, as he watched Harry move, as he felt Harry’s fingers curl around his own once again, as Harry’s hand dipped down just below his shoulder to hold his bicep, as Harry’s eyes grew softer with each step they took, as everything in Eggsy’s mind was flooded with Harry, Harry, Harry…

 

_Of course._

 

\-     -     -

 

Harry Hart had never felt less prepared in his entire life.

 

Eggsy was stood at the altar, shifting and shuffling anxiously as he waited for his soon to be wife to walk down the aisle. Harry was forced to watch his boy - her boy - with no way to comfort him. He had never felt more helpless in his life.

 

He felt sick to his stomach, because Eggsy looked so fucking…

 

_Beautiful._

 

_Fuck--_

 

Harry forced himself to work on muscle memory alone as the church doors opened, because, _fucking fuck._

 

He felt that pang of dread, the same sharp pain he got when Merlin informed him of incoming attackers, and every nerve in Harry’s body was on the verge of ordering him to fight. He forced his fists to unclench, sitting in brace position until he was knocked by someone on their way to standing. Harry’s legs were weak, shaking ever so slightly as he forced himself up.

 

And then they were seated again, and Harry was staring intently at his bruised and bloodied knuckles from where he’d punched the brickwork of the venue when he’d stepped out before the service because he could not fucking bare to look at Eggsy’s face right now, because he knew what look he’d find there, and she didn’t deserve it. _Christ--_

 

He found himself at the bar, hours later, after having endured the entirety of the service on autopilot alone. His heart ached, fucking burned, but the alcohol was helping relieve that. Harry clutched the ceremony booklet with a trembling hand and whiskey breath and salty lips, and promised himself just one more sip.

 

He lied, _of course._

 

Harry had excused himself before their first dance, opting, instead, to stand in the fucking rain wishing for something to occupy his battered hands, growing increasingly unsure of where the raindrops stopped and tears started.

 

His legs were just about giving out when he sat again, all but collapsing onto the dampened bench behind him. His pulse was thumping through his well-worked legs just as the upbeat music had been drumming against his ribcage upstairs in the hall. Harry didn’t belong here, amongst the sweaty bodies of the royal family on the dance floor, beside Eggsy’s mother, who kept giving him vicious side glances every now and again, between Eggsy’s other, younger, better friends who didn’t make him believe they were dead for years before reappearing like a rabbit out of a magician’s top hat. He was far too old for this, far too old to be spending time grieving for a lost heart he never truly owned in the first place. Why couldn’t he just be happy for his boy?

 

Because his boy wasn’t actually _his_.

 

Removing his glasses to preserve at least one thing from the rain, Harry ran his hands over his face, not even bothering to be gentle over his scar, and let them fall back to his lap. God, he was tired.

 

“Why didn’t you stay for the dance?” Eggsy was stood beside him now, sullying his suit for the sake of putting up with Harry Hart’s bullshit; how long had he been out here?

 

Harry was shaking, noting how his knees were jumping nervously and standing, “I’m sorry.”

 

“That ain’t an answer,” his ring glistened in the shitty streetlights and Harry’s bruised knuckles burned.

 

“Your father would be proud of you, Eggsy,” Harry said, because what else could he possibly say that wouldn't completely destroy his relationship with this boy; pining in silence may have been painful, but it would be nothing compared to not being around Eggsy every other day - Harry didn't think he’d be able to cope with that.

 

Eggsy paused for a moment, expression unreadable, and the boy hesitated before stepping closer, “Is that what this is about?”

 

Harry couldn't even force himself to nod.

 

The boy was so close to him now; Harry was breathing him in slowly, in regulation - it was so, so easy to become intoxicated with this boy. His hand was on his upper arm, and his ring was burning through his suit like it was made of molten iron.

 

“It ain't gonna change nothing, you know?” Harry wasn't entirely sure he believed that, “Harry, you made me into who I am today, I'm not gonna just throw that away because I’m married or whatever.”

 

Eggsy grew nearer still and Harry found himself retrieving his glasses from his front pocket and putting them back on, just for the sake of feeling some ounce of control.

 

“God, come here, you posh tit,” and at that, all control was lost, because Eggsy had thrown his arms around his mentor and pulled him into a hug.

 

Harry’s heart was aching beneath his crumpled suit, pulse beating so erratically he was sure he was about to die for the second time. He hadn't been hugged in what must have been years now, and almost forgot how to reciprocate the action; he hesitantly wrapped his arms around his boy's narrow frame. Despite the heaviness in his stomach, it still fluttered when Eggsy was so close to him.

 

He pulled him closer.

 

His hands were tangled in both Eggsy’s bespoke suit and hair, clinging desperately as he just allowed himself to breathe for a moment, to calm himself down. But the boy was holding him just as tightly, just as firmly, and doing the exact same.

 

Harry felt his boy’s forehead against his neck and promptly broke down in his arms.

 

He was _beyond fucked._

 

\-     -     -

 

Eggsy had watched Harry leave after the first few bars of their chosen song for their first dance rang out.

 

He’d been confused, repeatedly checking the door throughout for any sign of his return. It never came. Eggsy messed up the routine.

 

Tilde had smiled up at him, trying to get him back on track for the sake of their onlookers, but Eggsy’s mind was very clearly elsewhere. He couldn’t concentrate, standing on both his newly-wedded wife’s dress and feet, but couldn’t find it in him to apologise.

 

Harry wasn’t watching him dance. Harry wasn’t there for him to impress.

 

As soon as the song ended, Eggsy found himself shuffling out of the door before anyone had a chance to stop him. He headed through the halls, down the twisted staircase, and finally, into the garden. Using the crappy wall lighting as his only source of light, he searched through squinted eyes for the lost man, finding him hunched over on a soaked bench.

 

He couldn’t quite keep the disappointment out of his voice as he spoke, “Why didn’t you stay for the dance?”

 

And once he’d developed a rough idea of just why the man had left, Eggsy had given in to the desperate urge to touch him, to hold him. And Harry had broken down in his arms.  

 

Eggsy held him until the shaking stopped, until the bone-wracking sobs subsided, before pulling away gently. Harry’s hand remained on his shoulder, sending tingles down the length of his arm as he set about re-adjusting his shirt collar. Harry’s fingers settled on a chain around his neck, “I’m so proud of you, my boy.”

 

Harry drew closer, and Eggsy felt his heart knock against his ribs so hard he feared his mentor could hear it. He stopped breathing, stupidly entertaining that traitorous desire to be kissed. He closed his eyes as he felt Harry’s lips against his cheek, soft and kind and not nearly enough. And then they were gone.

 

Eggsy breathed out an audible sigh - _of what? Disappointment? Desire? God forbid, love?_ \- before he played it off as a joke, “Shut up, you soppy old git. Come back up and dance with me.”

 

“Of course.”

 

_Of course._


End file.
